Caught A Long Wind
by summerfool
Summary: With her father gone, beheaded for a traitor, and her brother waging war against the crown, Sansa Stark is as helpless as a lamb in a lion's den. Surrounded by Lannisters, she has no one to turn to, least of all the hateful Hound. For when has a dog ever taken pity on a wolf?


**Caught A Long Wind**

* * *

**Summary:** With her father gone, beheaded for a traitor, and her brother waging war against the crown, Sansa Stark is as helpless as a lamb in a lion's den. Surrounded by Lannisters, she has no one to turn to, least of all the hateful Hound. For when has a dog ever taken pity on a wolf?

**Author's note: **So, yes, I am reposting this, hi. I started this fic last summer, and even managed three chapters, before my studies and job completely took over my life. I'm sorry about that. But now I'm back, and to prove that I mean business, I have collected the three chapters I have written so far into one, as an indication of the length of the chapters I will be posting from now on.

* * *

**Chapter 1**

_Little bird, have you got a key?_

_Unlock the lock inside of me._

* * *

A bird had recently chosen the tiny perch above her chamber windows as a suitable nesting place. A songbird of sorts, small, by the sound of it. Perhaps a little nightingale, although it seemed content enough to sing its heralds at any hour of the day. An impressive range of trills and gargles woke her in the morn, bells and whistles accompanied her in the afternoon, and meek little tunes lulled her to sleep at night. And although in the beginning she had taken to leaving dry crumbs of bread out for her tenant, Sansa now found that the incessant singing all but drove her mad. For as her days seemed to grow longer, and the hours of next night even more endless than the last, the bird only seemed to sing all the merrier.

She'd almost had half a mind to ask one of the guards to destroy the nest, smash the tiny eggs to bits and pieces, but then had just as quickly decided against it. It would not do, a little bird would be just as hapless as she.

And Sansa did feel so very, very hapless.

Her mother was far away, the warmth and comfort of her arms just a memory. Rumour had it that her brother was rallying all the power of the North behind him, to march into war against a ruthless boy king, her _betrothed_ for all intents and purposes, but the cruel master of her torment in truth. Her sister was gone as well, willful, horrible, beloved Arya. Alive or dead, she did not know. Even her bastard half-brother Jon would be such a sight to be seen now, what she wouldn't give to have just one friendly, familiar face. And her father.

_Oh, father_.

Sansa felt her eyes sting, as well as her freshly split bottom lip. Gingerly reaching up to brush against the tender cut with her fingertips, she found that it had begun bleeding anew. With a trembling hand, she reached for a crumbled handkerchief, the one given to her by the Hound.

As she dapped the blood away, she momentarily felt anguish give way to a slow burning rage within her, as she had felt it earlier as well, when she had dared towards Joffrey and the edge of the wall. If only that ugly brute of a man had not stepped in front of her; she could have done something _right_ for once. Avenged her lord father. Ended the war right then and there, before it had even begun.

_Save yourself some pain, girl. Give him what he wants._

Just as it had then, her raged burned out. She never did have much to begin with, her sister had left little to go around. Septa Mordane always claimed that Sansa had a temper, and a way much better suited for a highborn lady, and Sansa had haughtily believed her words. But in truth, she was just a coward. Arya would never have suffered Joffrey Baratheons torment, or the ridicule of her father's memory. She would have punched _His Grace_ right on the nose, no matter the consequence.

If the Gods had any mercy, old or new, she would see her sister again.

The little bird above her chamber window struck yet another tune fit for a king. When her handmaidens came in later to help her bathe and dress for her supper, Sansa had laid out more bread crumbs.

* * *

The following morning came and went. At court, no one dared pay her any mind since the noble lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell had been beheaded as a traitor to the crown. Joffrey had business with his council and Queen Cercei had not seen fit to request her presence, leaving Sansa largely to her own devices. It was a mercy, if only a small one.

She spent most of the early afternoon in the godswood, for she had found that few in the Red Keep favoured the place as she did. In Kings Landing, prayers were uttered in a sept, not to the old gods in the trees. She was left alone here, and if she could not have a friend for company, that would do just as well.

Kneeling in front of the heart tree, she began murmuring a prayer for Robb, for Arya, for her father and for herself.

"A little bird should be perched on a branch, not kneeling before the trunk."

Whirling around, Sansa almost fell flat on her bottom, but she managed to support herself on her left hand. "What are you doing here?" she demanded before she could stop herself, failing to hide the fear in her voice, as well as the contempt.

The Hound offered her a grotesque smile, more like a sneer than anything else, as he stepped out from the shadows of the trees. "Forgotten your foolish manners, girl? Run out of pretty, empty words at last?"

For a moment, Sansa considered telling him that she intended to waste no further courtesies on the King's flea-ridden mutt, but as always, she lacked the courage. And even so, it wasn't true; he had merely caught her by surprise.

"Forgive me, _ser_, I had just thought to be alone," she answered him with no small amount of resignation, and stood from where she had been kneeling. It, too, was an insult, but far more subtle than the other. He growled. _Like a true dog_, she thought.

"To the Seven Hells with your _sers_, girl. And your gods. You think a tree will help you any? Your father did, and small good it did him."

It was like being struck in the face anew. Sansa could feel wetness threatening just behind her eyes yet again, and bit her lip, willing the tears not to fall. She hated that he always seemed to get right under her skin with his cruelty, even better than Joffrey. She _hated_ him.

"My father was a good man," she attempted.

"Good, bad, his head was lopped off just the same in the end, was it not? No prayers or curtsying will change that, although I suppose it will serve just as well to bid your time, as killing, drinking and whoring does to mine."

Her eyes brimmed. "Why are you always so hateful? Have you ever been nice to _anyone_?"

The Hound paused, seeming at loss for an answer, or perhaps he'd merely grown bored of tormenting her for the moment. Instead, he stepped all the way up to her and grabbed her quite gently by the chin, inspecting the injury on her lip. He was so large, his ruined face very close to her own, and Sansa felt herself stiffen at his touch. Suddenly she was gripped by a mad fear, that her perhaps would try _kiss_ her.

"'s healing well enough," he mumbled and let her go as if her skin had burned him, clearly sensing her discomfort. He stayed close to her though, planting one mighty bear paw of a hand against the trunk of the veirwood. Sansa had backed up against it, when he'd come forward. He swept a rough, calloused thumb over her wet cheek, and her breath hitched in her throat.

"Stop your crying, child," he muttered gruffly. "It won't do you any good, with the boy least of all." She realised that he was talking about his king.

"King Joffrey is my one true love," she recited without hesitation, at least not so foolish as to admit otherwise to any man of the Kingsguard, least of all Sandor Clegane. Or anyone in all of King's Landing, for that matter.

The laughter he rewarded her was dry and raspy. "Aye, that he is, little bird. And you best not forget it, or he will see fit to remind you. Keep singing your pretty little song, and perhaps you'll live long enough to learn a new one." Sansa dared not ask what he meant, and she was busy trying to keep her eyes from lingering at the bad side of his face. Irrational as it was, the fear of an unwanted kiss had not entirely left her, and he really was frightfully ugly. She suspected he could have been handsome enough, though, had it not been for his disfigurement. _And had he not been so cruel._

He stepped back at last, motioning for her to go forth. "Come, girl, I'll take you back to your chambers."

They walked back in silence, the clanging of his mail and armour deterring anyone happening upon their path. Ladies and lords alike shrunk away at his looming shadow, nor did any of the other guards seem particularly interested in getting in his way. Sansa could sympathise; he really was fearsome sight. Joffrey would be well protected to be sure, even if an enemy were to land at the gates.

_Like her brother._ The thought of Robb crossing swords with the Hound made Sansa run cold.

And yet there was kindness in him, at least after a fashion. He had given her his handkerchief at the wall of mounted heads, and he had offered her some form of advice yet again just now. As cruel and hard as he was, at times, he almost seemed to pity her situation. Or maybe it was all to his own amusements, though if it was, she could not tell.

"If the King had ordered you to, would you have struck me?" Sansa suddenly found herself wondering out loud. The Hound paused in his stride, turning sideways as if to gauge her. They had made it to the narrow, stony corridor that would lead to her chambers. She paused as well, nervously smoothing the fabric of her dress. For a moment, he seemed to ponder her question.

"Yes, little bird," he then consented. "I would have struck you, should the King have ordered me to."

Sansa felt strangely disappointed. "Oh."

"It would be my head, should I refuse, and a slap won't be what kills you, girl. And even so, I thought you a wolf, a Stark of Winterfell. Did your lord father never strike you?"

"No," she replied lamely. "As I said, my father was a good man."

"If he really was such a good man, he would have struck you from time to time. He did you no kindness, coddling you so. This world is a hard place, a mean place. He should have taught you that."

Sansa didn't know what to reply. She wondered if he considered what his own brother had done to his face a kindness as well. Certainly it didn't seem much an act of brotherly love.

"I thought I was a bird," she said.

"What?"

"You said you thought me a wolf. I believed you thought me a bird."

He hesitated, then snorted. "Bird, wolf, what does it matter? A lion will devour both alike."

"And a dog?" Sansa had no idea from where she got her sudden courage, nor why she even wanted to know.

Sandor Clegane spat at the ground. "A dog will fight as he goes down." And at that, he grabbed her by the arm and forced her to move along, although his grip was not unkind.

* * *

If Septa Mordane had been alive to see her stitches now, she would have been very disappointed indeed, Sansa thought, looking down at her pitiful needlework. They were a crooked mess, leaning this way or that, nothing like the ones she used to make at home. She had been so proud of those.

Embroidering was difficult, when you were afraid. When she had threaded the needle, her hand had trembled, almost too much to get it done. The Queen was watching closely her every move, it seemed, smiling that smile of hers.

"Your hands are shaking, little dove. Are you feeling well?"

It seemed to Sansa that everyone was comparing her to a bird, while she felt more like a lamb for slaughter. Would that she was a bird, though, so she could fly away. Far, far away.

"I'm feeling very well, thank you, Your Grace."

"You are looking pale."

Sansa stared mutely at her work.

"Your skin is but the colour of soured milk," Queen Cercei continued. "A little blush in your cheeks would suit you well. I will have someone take you to the gardens later."

"Thank you, Your Grace."

She was then allowed a few minutes of silence, although the Queens eyes never left her. Sansa tried her hardest to act like she paid no mind, only working on her stitchings.

"You must be very excited for the tourney tomorrow."

Sansa paused again. She had nearly stabbed herself on the finger with her needle. "Very much, Your Grace."

"A special day. And you will be seated next to His Grace, the king. Every girl dreams of such a day, does she not?"

Sansa glanced at the handmaidens in the room with them, each had her head bowed to her own task. If they were even listening to the conversation, they had long since learnt how to pretend not to.

"She does, Your Grace."

Queen Cercei's smile seemed every bit as strained as Sansa's own. "Won't you be the envy of them all."

In truth, Sansa didn't even know why the Queen kept sending for her like this. It was plain as day that she enjoyed her company no more than Sansa did hers, quite possibly even less. Yet she still requested her presence, sometimes as often as every day, when she was not detained by matters of council or other business. _Perhaps she simply has no one else to talk to_, Sansa thought briefly, but even as she thought it, she knew it not to be the true. Cercei was watching her.

"And have you picked out a dress yet?"

"Not yet, Your Grace."

The Queen feigned a sympathetic expression. "I expect the dresses you brought from Winterfell will be a little small and out of fashion by now, but pay no mind. I am sure you will look radiant."

Sansa swallowed. "Thank you, Your Grace."

When rewarded no further despite her efforts at ridicule, the Queen fell silent again. Sansa hoped that she would tire and send her away for the remainder of the day. Even though Cercei's promise had been means to an insult, she would actually very much care for a visit to the gardens in the afternoon. There was a small pond there, with water lilies, that Sansa was especially fond of. Maybe she could sit on the edge of the basin for a little while, just enjoy the quiet. She felt as if she had not taken a real breath in days, she was desperate for air.

And tomorrow was the King's name day.

The preparations for the tourney had been going on for weeks, even if there were few left in the Red Keep to attend the celebrations, and even fewer to compete. Every decent lord, knight and squire was fighting a war in the North, against her brother. _Robb. _And tomorrow she was to sit right next to Joffrey, all day.

Sansa felt ill.

"But you _are_ not well, my child," the Queen decided, although there was no true concern in her voice. "Guard, see that the lady Sansa is escorted to her bedchambers. She must rest."

"Your Grace," Sansa said, nearly a little too quick, but she caught herself. "If it please you, I should like that visit to the garden." When the Queen narrowed her eyes slightly, Sansa averted hers, but braved it still, even though her voice was meek. "You were quite right, I think the fresh air would do me well."

Clearly displeased to have been outwitted in this game of false pleasantries, Cercei's smile was thin and sharp enough to cut. "Of course," she dismissed her curtly, and Sansa was quick to rise. She curtsied, and hurried from the Queens chambers before she could change her mind.

She hoped not to meet anyone on her way down, for she was sure she that she really did look as terrible as she felt. Fortunately, the halls and corridors of Maegor's Holdfast seemed mostly deserted. It was still early in the afternoon, and even though the white raven had long since brought tidings of winter, it was immensely hot. A scorching heat wave had been upon them for days, the swan song of a ten year summer. Most of the highborn ladies in the Keep preferred to rest in the comfortable coolness of their chambers, while the sun rose high. Clad in the very lightest of her summer silks, a dress of bright canary yellow, Sansa did not mind the heat too much. She knew that shade was waiting for her under the trees, and the water in the pond would be sweet and cool. Perhaps she'd even treat her feet to a dip.

Delighted by the prospect, she hurried a corner and nearly collided with Lord Varys.

"Pardon me, my lord," she flustered, "I did not see you."

"No apologies needed, Lady Sansa," Varys reassured her with all the charm of a snake in the grass. "I seem to have made it a habit of moving too silently at times, the fault was all mine."

She disliked the man deeply. He was so pale and smooth, and always smelled faintly of sweet decay; Lord Baelish was easily the most gallant of the two, Sansa decided, and seemed much less the lickspittle, too, even if he sometimes did look at her in a strange and unnerving sort of way.

"If you would permit me to ask, where are you off to in such haste? I hope nothing is wrong?"

_If something indeed was wrong, I would never tell it to you, _she thought to herself, but remained courteous, every inch the lady. "No, my lord, I was just coming from the Queen's chambers. Her Grace suggested that I go outside and sit for a spell, for recreation."

"Ah, such prudent advice. Her Grace is most thoughtful, these days must be toiling for you, indeed," Varys concurred, but his words were drenched in falseness and lot less sympathy than what he liked to pretend.

Sansa merely nodded. "She is most kind."

"But surely you should not go without protection," the eunuch fussed, clasping his hands together in superbly acted worry, but there was a strange glimmer in his eye and a hint of a smile about his lips. Sansa fought the urge to frown. "These are troubled times, and though you are safe within these mighty walls, one cannot be too careful. Who knows what dangers could be lurking, even in these halls?"

_Yes, what dangers indeed,_ she echoed silently.

"I'll take her."

She had not even noticed Sandor Clegane approaching them, and judging by his slightly startled reaction, neither had Lord Varys. But there was his hulking figure looming by the foot of the stairs, his demeanor as sullen as it ever was. At the sight of him, Sansa felt a strange relief. Even if he was always angry, crude and every bit as vile in his own way, she found that she much preferred the Hound and his brutal honesty over the Spider and his web of lies.

Varys quickly regained his composure. "Then I am much less worried for safety of the fair lady Sansa; truly, she could be no better protected than by your hand, Clegane."

The Hound strode up to where they stood. "Save your guilded tongue for the polished arses at court, Spider," he sneered. "Your faith is worth to me no more than the piss in your chamber pot."

Varys, as always, remained unfazed, even where braver men would have wet themselves. "Then I shall detain you no longer, and bid you both a pleasant afternoon," he merely replied and offered a slight bow. "Lady Sansa, as always, I hope to bask in your radiant company again."

And at that, he was off. The Hound watched him go, a darkness in his gaze. "Perfumed sack of steaming shit," he growled. Then it was as if he remembered that Sansa was still present, timidly looking up at him from where she stood. He jerked his head towards the direction from which he'd come. "Move, child."

Not needing to be told twice, Sansa hurried into motion, walking the last bit of way to the gardens with the Hound's heavy footsteps on her heels. She was more than a little dismayed that her hopes for a lonesome afternoon seemed to have been thwarted once again, but she supposed it was better than nothing. And at least he had made Lord Varys leave. She thought briefly on the Spider and his words. They had seemed so strange, almost like … a threat? Or a warning, perhaps?

When they made it into the soft grass, she made a bee line for the pond. It was located in the farthest end, in a little grove of willows and white cherry trees. Big, colourful fish swam in it, and before, when everything was still peaceful and good, before her father has lost his head to Ilyn Payne and her brother had rebelled against the crown, she had enjoyed giving them names, dubbing each one after her favourite knights. There was Ser Loras, the beautiful, icy blue one with the burgundy tail; Ser Robar, the elegant red one with yellow fins. The bright purple-and-indigo was Ser Berric and the smaller one of shimmering silver was Ser Patrek. There was also a mean looking thing, clad all in black, but she had not found it nearly as beautiful or interesting as the rest, and had simply named it The Stranger.

And the most beautiful of them all, the golden king with the scales of fire, she had named Joffrey.

Miserable at the memory of her folly, she slumped on edge of the stony basin. How stupid she had been, a silly little girl. The Hound had been right to mock her. She glanced at his terrible face, as he went to lean in the shade against one of the willows, and saw that his black hair was matted and sticky, and his scars were slick with sweat. Small wonder, with the cloak, the woolen surcoat and the heavy armor he was wearing. Surely it was sweltering under all that mail and plate.

"You don't have to stay out here," she offered him. Perhaps if he saw that she was fine, he would leave her in peace.

His cruel mouth twitched with angered amusement. "So eager to get rid of me, are you, little bird?

"I only meant-"

"I know what you meant. But slippery toad as he may be, the Spider is right about one thing. You shouldn't be wandering about on your own so much."

"Why?" she asked. "We're still inside the castle, what could possibly happen?"

The Hound laughed, a rasping sound. "Girl, you are a downy chick in a pit of snakes, or do you still not see this place for the dungpile it is? If you don't, you're even more foolish than I took you for. No one here means to do right by you, neither lord nor knight."

Sansa looked back at the fish, tears stinging in her eyes. She hated how he always made her feel stupid. "Then why are _you_ here? You don't care either."

"I don't," he affirmed, almost a little too quickly, "but if the king loses his favourite toy, he'll find a new one to play with for sure, and chances are it will be my head. Ugly or not, I aim to keep it for a good while yet."

"I'm not a plaything," she protested weakly.

"But you are a child," the Hound retorted, pushing away from the tree and closing the distance between them. "A wee bairn still, for all your ladylike manners."

Sitting down as she was, he towered over her even more than usual. Then his stare dipped to the bodice of her dress, then lower, all the way down to her slipper clad feet and slowly back up again to her face. The way he lingered at first her bosom, then her hips made Sansa uncomfortable and her cheeks warm. "Or are you?" he continued, almost as if he was speaking to himself, but his voice sounded thick and coarse. "That dress is meant for a woman's curves, but the colour is fitting for a bird. Were you planning to fly away on little silk wings?"

"You are being presumptuous, _ser,_" Sansa said, appalled, with all the ice of the North she could muster. But it couldn't have been much more than a snowflake, as the Hound simply laughed his throaty laugh once again.

"Aye, I am," he conceded, "but it's a hardship, with a pretty little thing like you. You're a Stark, but also a Tully. Like frost in the red morn, but frail." His stance almost seemed to soften a bit. "I could break you with my finger and my thumb, and no bird song could do a thing about it."

Sansa looked at him, not sure what to say. He seemed near a little mad, perhaps it was the heat. For some strange reason, the beginning of an old verse popped into her head.

_I loved a maid as fair as dawn, with fire in her hair._

But she held her tongue. "Will the King not want you, while you are here guarding me?"

He stepped back a little, and spat to the side. She fought not to grimace. "The King's in council. No need for a dog in a council. Might piss on the rug."

Sansa frowned. "Then you should at least take off your cloak and sit down, if you mean to stay out here." When he seemed to be hesitating, she pleaded. "Please."

Wordlessly, he unfastened his cloak and sat, clanging as he went. Cupping his hand in the water, he splashed some on his face. "Damn this wretched heat," he cursed. Water and sweat dribbled down below his collar.

"Is it not warm, where you're from? Your home?" She didn't know why she'd asked, but being silent while around him always made her uneasy.

"I have no home," he replied sourly. "But if you mean Clegane's Keep, it's in the Westerlands. Near Lannisport."

"Oh." She remembered once again the monsterous Ser Gregor, and the story of the Mountain and the Hound, the one Lord Baelish had told her at the tourney. She remembered a sigil, three black dogs on a yellow field. It seemed already like years ago, but the scars on the man sitting beside her were still a thing of the present.

"Does it ever hurt?" she blurted out, before she could stop herself. The Hound looked at her then, long and hard, and for a moment she was sure he'd be angry with her again. It seemed she had adopted Arya's habit of choosing speech over thought, and Littlefinger's warning of bringing up the circumstances of the Hound's ruin of a face still rang true in her mind. "The scars, I mean."

"Sometimes," he finally replied, albeit gruffly, "but no worse than anything else."

"I'm sorry." It was a silly thing to say, Sansa knew, but she meant it sincerely.

"I'm not," he said harshly. "It reminds me what this world really is, it never lets me forget. Nor should you, little bird."

_How could I, you never let me._

"You always speak of this place as if you hate it," she pointed out,

"I _do_ hate it, foolish girl. I hate those strutting peacocks you call knights, little lordlings with a silver spoon shoved up their asses, a cunt of a queen and her brood, her lion brother, the dwarf, and your precious little shithead of a king. If you have any sense, you will too."

Sansa was bewildered. Was this a trap? Did he mean to trick her into saying something she shouldn't? It was high treason, speaking of the royal family like that, and it was no secret that Joffrey had cut off the heads of men for less. For a _lot_ less. "King Joffrey is my—"

"Aye, your _one true love_," he finished her sentence, sneering. "And what a marriage it will be, if perhaps a bit short. "

"Stop."

"I wouldn't be surprised if your _beloved_ Joffrey takes his crossbow to bed on your wedding night as well-"

"Stop, stop it, _just stop!_"

This time, Sansa could not keep the tears at bay as his cruel words bit into her. He was right. No matter what she did or which corridor she chose to walk in the Red Keep, there would eventually be a marriage bed waiting at the end. Her only hope was that Robb would prevail, defeat Lord Tywin's armies and take the city, but how could he ever? The Lannisters were so mighty and powerful, with thousands upon thousands of men at their back. It was hopeless.

Oh god, it was all so hopeless.

Burying her face in her hands, she cried like a babe. She was so tired of being afraid, and didn't care if he saw or heard, or if this was what he wanted. He was vile, vile, _vile_.

Then she felt a rough hand on her neck, and warm breath in her hair. His arm came around her shoulders and he pulled her toward him, leaning her against his chest.

"Little bird. There now, there there, little bird," he murmured, patting her awkwardly.

In that moment, Sansa thought he sounded almost as helpless as she felt.

* * *

Splashing equal parts water on himself and the stone floor, the Hound saw the puddles turn reddish pink with blood. It wasn't his own. His right shoulder ached from swinging a sword for hours, and his surcoat and breeches were soaked heavy with sweat, but those were the limits of his hurts.

The competition had been meager, even for what he was used to. This tourney had been folly, a mummer's farce. War was closing in on all sides, and that pissant of a king wanted to them to _play_ at one. He'd been hacking away on pudgy little lordlings and hedgeknights all morning, spilling blood for sport. He had never cared much for tourneys to begin with, but this one had been tiring. And now he had all too little time to clean up and rest, before he had to stand guard for the king at his nameday feast.

_Would that he would fucking choke on it_.

The idea of Joffrey Baratheon killed by a stuffed quail was an amusement, going headfirst into his guilded plate, all purple faced and rattling. Maybe even spattering mint sauce all over the little bird as he went, and whatever pretty dress she'd be wearing.

Muttering a curse, he grabbed at the wine skin on the nearby table and took a hearty swig, sinking heavily onto a chair, the only one in his chambers. They were sparse, but he liked it that way. The liquid burned its way down through his throat and chest, while he reluctantly indulged.

He'd held her while she'd cried. She had smelled like soap and youth, and he'd enjoyed it much more than he should have. The bare skin of her shoulder had felt soft and cool, like sticking your hand into a pile of fresh snow. He'd wondered if it would feel the same way to fuck her.

It hadn't lasted very long. Soon enough she'd remembered herself, and him. She'd stopped her pitiful mewling and quietly asked him to escort her back to her chambers. He had, feeling his palm burn from where he'd touched her all the way to the Keep. That night he'd gone drinking until he'd nearly passed out, and when he'd eventually staggered back to his quarters in the early hours of the morning, he'd taken his cock in his hand, all while thinking about creamy skin in a canary dress.

He'd woken with a mouth as dry as cotton, a bellyful of snakes and thousand little demons dancing in his head. Even so, the King's games had taxed more on his patience than his flesh. But when the little bird had nearly gotten herself into right bit of trouble, trying to save that drunken fool Dontos from his grizzly fate, he'd found himself offering her his assistance yet again. It had been an effortless lie, he'd barely even realised he'd said it, but it had been enough.

He wasn't sure, but he thought he'd maybe seen a fleeting glimpse of gratitude on the girl's face, when she had looked at him after that.

He buried his face in his hands. He was bone tired, in a right foul mood, and would much prefer drinking himself into the gutter yet again tonight. But duty came first, pleasure second. He'd get good and well into his cups, but not before the feast had come and gone. With an angry sigh, he took one final drink from the skin and rose from his chair.

Reaching for the washing bowl, he emptied the rest of its contents over his head. Even this late in the afternoon, the heat was stifling. The skin on his face felt tight and dry, his blood was boiling. It had been long since he'd been able to get a decent night's sleep, unless he drank himself into unconsciousness. It was enough to make any man consider joining the damned Nightswatch, just for the cold.

The little bird probably missed the snows, he wagered, even in her summer garbs.

_Yellow silk and red hair._

* * *

"You can stop your sorry dancing now, fool. Away with you, my lady is tiring of your tricks."

Dontos bowed and scraped, slowly backing away into the shadows and the crowd. He had already been outfitted in jester's clothing, and had spent the better part of an hour hopping pitifully about from one foot to another, with a wooden horse between his legs, trying with all his might to amuse his king. It had worked for a little while; Joffrey Baratheon was easily entertained by the ridiculous. But now a look of boredom had returned to his sneering face.

The feast was well into the night, but food was still carried to and fro the long tables. Had his insides not still been a bit uneasy from all the drinking he'd been doing the night before, the Hound might have felt hungry from the wafting smells of fowl and fish and venison and stew and sweet plums and apricot wine. But as it were, he was content enough leaning slightly against the wall where he was standing, waiting for the King to have his fill.

He hadn't, though, not quite yet. Instead, he had turned his attention back to the lady in question. Sansa Stark sat mutely by his side, looking pale as ever. The food on her plate was untouched.

"You are not eating," the boy regent demanded. "Does my nameday feast not become you?"

The girl regarding him uneasily, as if he were a viper coiled to strike. "It's is all so delicious, Your Grace," she said carefully. "It's just that my stomach has been upsetting me lately."

Joffrey seemed very displeased. "Well, that's very inconsiderate of you. How am I to enjoy my feast, if you're sitting there looking like you're about to retch?"

Sansa cast her eyes downward. "I beg pardon Your Grace, I did not mean to upset you," she attempted. "You're right, of course you should be able to enjoy your evening without worrying for me." Grasping her fork, she timidly lifted a bit of venison to her mouth and laboured with it, looking like she was chewing on old dog's meat. It seemed to satisfy her betrothed well enough, however. He regarded her with appreciation.

"You look quite nice. Lannister red becomes you. You should wear my colours more often."

Sansa swallowed visibly. "Thank you, Your Grace. I shall."

The Hound felt an urge to look away. Though a naive little thing she was, he didn't care much for watching her discomfort. She was just a girl, she didn't know any better. She'd lived the life of a highborn maid, far from troubles and unpleasant things. Everything she knew was wrong, but that was hardly her fault.

"When we are wed, you shall wear them all the time. I'll put a son in you, and he'll be clad only in gold and red, if I want it so."

"I only wish to please you, Your Grace."

"As you should. I won't see you in your house colours again, they offend me. You shouldn't wear them, they are stained with your traitor father's headblood."

Suddenly the little bird's hand flew up to cover her mouth, her cheeks bulging. For a second the Hound thought she'd lose her dinner completely, but she managed to come out of the fight on top, only a little bit of bile slipping through her fingers. Joffrey jerked back, visibly disgusted.

"Good gods, if you really are ill, you shouldn't be anywhere near me. Get away!"

The people around them had fallen silent, uneasy by the King's anger. Queen Cercei spoke up then, the tone of her voice cool and persuasive.

"Lady Sansa has not been feeling well lately, Your Grace. Perhaps she should be confined to her chambers, until she is. It would be best not to have her wandering about the keep, until we can be sure her illness is of no danger to you."

If there ever was an icier cunt in all of the Seven Kingdoms, the Hound would pay good money to see it.

Appearing as if he was warring between his own disgust and the prospect of being robbed of his favourite plaything, Joffrey sneered.

"Fine. _Dog."_

Feeling his body move on its own accord, he stepped up. "Your Grace."

"Take Lady Sansa to her chambers. See to it that she doesn't leave them until she's better."

Nodding, he took a step back. The little bird stood, white as a sheet of fresh parchment. She curtsied with unease. "Your Grace." Then she hurried off, and he took to a brisk stride after her, the sounds of the feast fading behind him.

They walked in silence for a minute. She barely seemed to acknowledge his presence, until she suddenly delayed by a stone pillar, clutching her middle. Then her hand flew to her mouth yet again, she turned to shadows and thoroughly emptied the contents of her stomach. Gasping, she leaned heavily against the pillar.

"I beg your pardon, ser."

The Hound almost laughed at the absurdity. She retched and then she _apologised,_ to him of all people. However, instead he simply pulled a piece of cloth from his armour and handed it to her wordlessly.

She accepted it with a trembling hand.

"Thank you," she said and wiped her mouth, her wet cheeks blushing with shame. He grimly realised that this was the second time he'd presented her with a handkerchief, like one of the knights in her fairy tales. He imagined that standing in a darkened corridor with a wretched, disfigured dog, having just vomited all over her dainty silk slippers, was very far from what she had always been dreaming of.

"Can you walk?" he asked her gruffly, feeling an unusual tightening in his chest.

"Yes, I…I just need a moment."

He shifted impatiently. "We can't stay here long. The Queen wants you locked up in your cage."

"I don't understand why she hates me so much," Sansa said bitterly. "Even if my father had ever truly been a traitor, which he _wasn't_, it would be no fault of mine."

The Hound hesitated for a second. Could she really be so blind?

"She's jealous of you, little bird."

She frowned, confused. "Jealous."

"Aye."

She regarded him with obvious disbelief. "But why would the Queen ever be jealous of _me?_ She's powerful and beautiful and—"

"— aging," he cut her off. "She envies your youth. You are young and pretty, a real highborn lady, if there ever was one."

"So is she," she argued, still not convinced. "The Lannisters are the richest family in all of the Seven Kingdoms!"

"But all thieves and liars alike," he growled. "Even Lann the Clever was a trickster. Cercei is a rotten fruit, grown from a rotten tree, and she knows it, though she would never admit to it. Not even to herself."

"But—"

"Seven hells, girl!" the Hound barked, grabbing her by the shoulders, though taking care that he was not too rough. "The Lannisters are rich and feared, but you are a _Stark_. Your line goes back more than 8000 years. You are the get of kings of old, the Kings in the North. Your name commands respect, no matter what they've done to drag it through to mud. Your father was a fucking fool, but he had _honour_. So has your brother, even that little hellcat sister of yours. She was a right little cunt, but she knew the difference between what was right, and what was easy."

He punctuated each sentence with a shake, angry with her meekness. _Fight_, he all but roared on the inside. _Fight me, girl, I know you have it in you. The wolf is there, but it won't bite._

Sansa was completely rigid in his grasp, wide blue eyes staring up at him, her bottom lip slightly quivering. She looked as if she feared he would strike her.

He lessened his grip.

"You have ice in your blood and fire in your hair, little bird," he rasped, and the words tasted strangely bitter on his tongue. "There's no queen in the world who would not envy you."

She was as mute as a mouse still, and he turned away from her, disgusted, though it was mostly with himself. _This damn girl._

"Your father was a knight," then came her timid little voice, and the urge to laugh came back. Even when she was scared, she still sought to console, to _please._

"Aye, but my grandfather tended the kennels, until Tytos Lannister nearly got himself killed by a lion. As did his father before him. I'm a dog born and bred, but the difference between me and the damned Queen, is that I will _admit_ what I am.

"I don't know what I am," she said, and the look in her eyes was that of a dying bird, caught in a pit of tar- "Used to be that I did, or at least I thought I did. But not anymore."

The Hound felt his mouth twitch. "You do know, girl. You have just forgotten."

When she didn't answer, he grasped her gently by the elbow and nudged her forward.

The rest of the walk was spent in silence. The steps to her tower chambers coiled ever upwards, and for the second time that day, the Hound felt his muscles ache. He needed to go drink himself into a stupor and forget the pain in his arms and shoulders. He needed to eat. He needed a whore to fuck. He needed to sleep. But most of all, he needed to forget the quiet despair in Sansa Stark's eyes.

He couldn't help her. There was nothing he could do for her. He didn't _want_ to, she wasn't _his_ damned responsibility.

_Let her wait for one of her bloody knights. Let her see what dreams are worth,_ the dog in him growled.

When they finally made it to her chamber door, he saw that a handmaiden had already prepared her bedding. A small fire was crackling in the hearth, despite the fact that the night air was still warm and heavy. It seemed a northern thing, always wanting a fire. Perhaps the Starks were so used to the cold, that it was rooted in their bones.

Sansa lingered at the door, like she wanted to say something. When she turned, her saw that the tears on her cheeks were fresh.

"I just want to go home," she whispered.

When she closed the door, the Hound felt cold in his own bones as well.


End file.
